


One Of These Days

by nightshifted



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshifted/pseuds/nightshifted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The choice between history class and a free pass with a decidedly psycho guidance counselor is an obvious one, even if it means Santana sits there and paints her nails while Emma disinfects her desk for the tenth time and rambles on about mental illness. (glee_rare_pairs fic exchange)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Of These Days

Santana remembers a time when it'd been easy. Easy to part the halls of McKinley High with Brittany's pinky looped around hers, easy to intimidate those below her on the social ladder, showing restraint only when Brittany pressed a pacifying hand against her hip.

To be fair, Santana still parts the hallways with her swagger, still intimidates pimply-faced freshmen with a barrage of well-aimed words, but it's without Brittany by her side. Somewhere along the way, they'd slipped apart.

She curses the same forces that she'd praised at the beginning of the year, the ones that had put her and Brittany in the same history class, because she cannot stand to be so physically close without feeling that little flutter at the pit of her stomach, and fuck it, not that she gives a shit about history, but her grades are slipping because she can't concentrate.

She needs a break, so she takes a detour one day and never heads to her history class. She wanders into Emma Pillsbury's office instead, partly to dodge the suspicious hall monitor, but mostly because she hasn't watched anyone squirm for a while, and she kind of misses it.

The glass door clicks closed behind Santana, and Emma looks up from her desk.

"Santana, hi. Don't you have class?"

Santana shrugs. "History, but we're learning about the colonization of Mesoamerica or whatever, and I'm seriously offended. All these conquistadores trying to get their imperialism on— _no me gusta_."

Emma nervously rearranges her pen holder. "Santana, um, I—aren't your parents from Indiana?"

"Michigan," Santana corrects. "Whatever, I'm still offended." She crosses her arms over her chest. "So can you get me out of that class or not?"

"You want to drop history?"

"Yeah."

"But Santana, it's a required class." When Santana doesn't react, Emma continues, "You need it to graduate."

Santana picks up a pamphlet off Emma's desk, ignoring the way Emma quickly reaches over to rearrange the stack. "Then can I like, switch my schedule around and take it another period?" Santana asks, glancing at the pamphlet in her hands.

"What's wrong with this period?"

Santana's fist closes around the pamphlet, crinkling it. "Nothing." She stands up and turns to the door. "Never mind."

"Santana, wait—I can't help you drop history, but… you're free to drop by at any time."

Santana pauses at the door. "Are you really that lonely?"

Emma smiles politely. "Any time," she continues. "Even if it happens to be during one of your classes, perhaps one that you dislike attending."

Santana catches on and allows a small smile. "Thanks, Miss P."

She tosses her crumpled pamphlet back onto Emma's desk before heading out, and through the glass wall, she catches a glimpse of Emma staring horrified at the offending object. Santana smirks to herself.

\--

The choice between history class and a free pass with a decidedly psycho guidance counselor is an obvious one, even if it means Santana sits there and paints her nails while Emma disinfects her desk for the tenth time and rambles on about mental illness.

To Santana's surprise, Emma doesn't push her to talk about anything, and chatting with the one person at school who has the dish on everyone definitely has its perks.

Santana caps her nail polish bottle and leans back to admire her hands. "Do people actually like, come here to talk about their problems?"

"Some, yes. Mostly, they just want someone to listen to them."

"So you get paid to be a friend, basically. Pretty sweet deal. Not something I could ever put up with, but whatever. You like it? Dealing with crazies day in and day out?"

Emma looks around her office. "Wouldn't still be doing it if I didn't."

"Maybe you just don't like change," Santana offers with a shrug, "so you let yourself stay in the same place even when you're unhappy."

"I'm not—" Emma shuffles against her seat. "Santana, I'm not unhappy."

"Oh really?" Santana raises an eyebrow. "Then what's with the looks between you and Mr. Schue? I try to avoid looking at him whenever I can because I'm pretty sure the glare off his hair might actually blind me, but it's becoming a little ridiculous."

Emma's eyes widen. "I'm married to Carl."

Santana shrugs. "So what? Since when does that stop anyone from sneaking around?"

She knows she's said the wrong thing when Emma sits up straighter and clears her throat, rare determination flashing in her eyes.

"Would you ever do that?" Emma asks. "Be unfaithful to your husband?" She pauses, then generously adds, "Or your wife."

"Why the hell would I have a wife?" Santana fires back, feeling her cheeks grow hot, but whether out of anger or fear, she can't tell. She hurries on. "Whatever. Not like I'm ever going to get tied down, so it doesn't matter." She snaps her fingers confidently in the air. "Free bitch, baby."

Emma tents her hands on her desk, flexing them. "Santana, one day you might find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with."

"I won't," Santana replies firmly, but she's thinking about Burt and Carole and the way they'd looked at their wedding, the joy crinkling the corners of their eyes. She's thinking about the way she'd felt then: lonely.

"Why do you really want to drop history so badly?" Emma finally broaches.

"I hate everyone in my class," Santana deflects, resurrecting her defenses. "Look, can we just drop it? I'm not here for a counseling session. I'd rather sit in there with those dumbasses than stay here and be grilled."

Emma bites her lip. "I'm doing you a favor, Santana."

Santana swallows hard, deflating. "I know. I'm s—" Her eyes lower briefly, and she sighs. "I know."

\--

Santana is a button-pusher by nature. She knows what sets people off, and she doesn't shy away from embellishing a little when she's smacking the truth in everyone's faces. With Emma, it's easy. With Emma, she speaks her mind, and there's no diva storm-off, tears and messy confrontations.

"So you're like super freaky about touching things, right?" Santana asks, wiggling her fingers around in front of her face.

Emma tucks her bottle of Purell neatly into one of her drawers. "I have a severe aversion to germs, if that's what—"

"Then how do you get yourself off?" Santana asks with a straight face.

Emma's eyes widen impossibly. "Santana!"

Santana smirks. "Do you have to disinfect your hands first? Doesn't that kill the mood? Or do you get some kind of weird kinky pleasure from killing bacteria? That's it, isn't it?"

Emma flusters. "Santana, I'm not—"

"Do you have to disinfect the inside of your—"

" _Santana_ ," Emma cries, flushing hard, " _that's enough!_ "

Santana throws her head back and laughs, the sound almost foreign to her own ears. Emma smiles softly against her pink cheeks.

Frequency breeds familiarity, and from that, comfort. She likes the way Emma squirms under her words, likes the faintly indignant way Emma huffs, likes the sound of her name leaving Emma's lips as she struggles to compose herself.

Santana realizes, if reluctantly, that she drops in week after week not only to skip history.

\--

Santana finds herself walking the McKinley hallways alone more often than not. Sometimes when she needs to get away, she wanders into the choir room when it's empty and sits at the piano, fingers pressing lightly against ivory. She'd picked up a tune or two from Tina, and she has a decent ear, so she'll whip out some sheet music and teach herself to keep her mind off everything else.

She's headed for her locker when she passes an open classroom and catches sight of Brittany, head rolled back in laughter. Artie, Mike, and Tina flank her; it's a Brainiacs meeting. Santana watches long enough for her stomach to churn, a now-familiar lump forming in her throat.

She turns away and slips into the choir room, closing the door behind her. To her surprise, she finds Emma seated on top of the piano, legs crossed demurely in front of her. Emma's head is bowed, but her back is to the door, so it isn't until Santana approaches and hears muffled sobs that she realizes that Emma is crying. Santana drops her bag and cautiously steps closer.

"Miss P?" she asks gently. "What are you doing here?"

Emma pulls a tissue out of her pocket and wipes at her eyes. She laughs tearfully. "Being a pathetic little girl."

Santana lifts herself onto the piano and settles down next to Emma. "Makes two of us, then."

Emma stares down at her lap, looking more broken than Santana's ever seen her. "Carl just called," she says quietly, sniffling. "We're getting an annulment."

Santana slides her hand tentatively over Emma's, folding her fingers over Emma's slender ones. She can't explain the ache in her chest, like she's sharing the pain of Emma's loss. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, unsure.

"I should go," Emma says suddenly, moving to push herself off the piano.

Santana tightens her grip around Emma's hand, stilling her. "No, it's okay. Stay. You always—you always try to help me; I just want to—maybe if you talked about it?" Santana shifts uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing her ankles.

Emma stays silent for a moment, then, "I just feel like I'll never get this right. I commit too easily. I was prepared to marry Ken after what, barely a month."

Santana wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, that was honestly just sad. You know what? Stop settling for people. Lose the wardrobe and you'd be hot. Quit pining for someone you can't have. Stand up for yourself once in a while."

Emma stiffens but says nothing.

Santana sighs. "What everyone says about it getting better after high school—that's all bullshit, isn't it?"

"It will get better for you," Emma is quick to reply.

"Then why," Santana asks, "can't it get better for you too?"

Emma doesn't answer that, but when Santana reaches up to wipe at Emma's tears with her fingertips, she doesn't stop her, either.

\--

The next time Santana sees Emma, it's at their usual time in her office. She's quiet when she enters, quiet when she sits down. It feels like something has shifted in the balance of their relationship. Santana stares down at her lap for a few moments, letting the silence untangle her feelings.

Santana exhales. "I fucked up."

Emma rises out of her seat and walks around her desk. She slides into the chair next to Santana. "Yeah," she admits, "so did I."

"It's Brittany." Santana shuts her eyes, momentarily lost. "The reason I want to transfer history classes is Brittany. I can't—I don't know how to be around her." The weight of Emma's arm falls against her shoulders as she's pulled into an awkward side hug. Santana takes a shaky breath. "And it's—I like girls." The last part comes out in a whisper, but she knows Emma's heard her because the grip around her shoulder tightens. "I like girls," Santana continues, feeling empowered by the truth, "but I just don't really know how to be out and proud the way I feel like I'm expected to be."

"Nobody's expecting anything from you," Emma tries to reassure her.

"Are you kidding? _Everyone's_ expecting something from me. It's high school. I don't want to join the golf team."

"I'm not expecting anything from you," Emma tells her. "I mean, I'm expecting you to accomplish great things, but I'm not expecting you to be anyone other than who you are."

Santana smiles faintly. "You know, Miss P, when you're not being creepily infatuated with Mr. Schue, you're actually kind of cool." She shakes her head. "Anyway, I'm working on it. This. Telling everyone."

Emma nods. "I, um, I thought about what you said. Putting myself first. It's not too late for me. Things can get better."

"Yeah, you work on that, and I guess I'll... you know. Work on _that_."

"The truth can be very liberating, Santana."

"Yeah," Santana says softly. "Hey." A beat. "Listen, I didn't just hang around here for a free pass out of history. I mean, that was pretty sweet, but I actually tolerate you."

Emma smiles. "I have a feeling that's a compliment I should cherish."

"Yeah, yeah," Santana dismisses, rolling her eyes. Her lips curl into a grin. "So like, speaking of lady kisses or whatever, have you ever made out with a girl?"

Emma reddens. "No, that's—no."

"Would you like to?" Santana asks suggestively.

"Oh, well, uh… no, but it's not like—I mean, it's not like I've never thought about… I mean, everybody—"

Santana laughs and bumps her shoulder amicably against Emma's. "Maybe at graduation," she says with a mischievous glint. "That is," she can't help but add, "if you can stay unmarried for that long."

Emma's cheeks flush, but she smiles.

 

 _fin_


End file.
